King Peso: An Emilia Cruz Novel (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 4)

by Carmen Amato

  “I’ll run downstairs for an hour while you’re scanning the ledgers,” Kurt announced as he came into the bedroom dressed in a towel.

  Emilia’s heart twisted. Sometimes he was so beautiful that it hurt.

  Kurt picked out his clothes; navy pants, monogrammed shirt, loafers buffed to a high sheen. “I need to catch up on a few things,” he said as he dressed swiftly. “When you’re done scanning, send me the file and I’ll get copy it onto a dozen flash drives. Then I’ll get a driver to take us over to the Santa Rosa to talk to Tony.”

  “Thanks for all of this,” Emilia said. “You didn’t want El Trio to touch the hotel. Now you’re in the middle of it.”

  Kurt came over to the bed and cupped his hands around Emilia’s face. “When this is over,” he said. “We have to talk. About some serious stuff.”

  “Agreed,” Emilia said, keeping her voice neutral.

  Kurt kissed her and left. Emilia took a long shower and found a tank top, pencil skirt, and sandals. He was probably going to tell her he was moving back to Las Vegas to be with Suzanne and their child.

  Emilia went into the office. As she started the tedious process of scanning each page of the ledgers, she wondered how long it would take to pack her things.

  When this is over.

  ☼

  The driver stopped the car in front of the Santa Rosa and they got out. The hotel was a gracious shrimp-colored stucco affair in the traditional Spanish style. Pots of vibrant hibiscus lined the steps to the massive carved front door.

  Tony and Jane Wilcox lived there during the cold months in Canada, Kurt had told her, and owned another hotel property in Toronto where they lived the rest of the year. Emilia had only a vague idea where that was.

  The lobby was an exaggerated version of the reception hall in Dario Delgado’s house, cluttered with antique Spanish furniture and makeshift racks of postcards and brochures. Piles of Acapulco’s weekly tourist magazine sat on a priceless table next to a pottery lamp with a large crack and a grimy shade.

  Staff were overdressed for the Acapulco heat in tuxedo pants, white long sleeved shirts, satin vests, and cotton gloves. Although ceiling fans turned overhead, the receptionist who led them to Tony Wilcox’s office door looked ready to melt.

  “Kurt. Emilia.” Wilcox rose from his chair behind a yacht-sized mahogany desk. He shook hands with Kurt and landed a blubbery buss on Emilia’s cheek. “Let’s go into the bar. You’re in time for the midday cocktail.”

  The bar at the Santa Rosa was a small intimate affair, the way the inside of a coffin was a small intimate affair. The place was dim and mahogany paneling absorbed what little light there was. Banana plants in dark pots drooped as if they’d lost the will to live.

  Wilcox steered them to a tall table by a window. On the other side of the leaded glass, coconut palms shaded an Olympic-sized turquoise pool. Dozens of teak loungers ringed the water. An outdoor bar sported a palapa roof, a bored bartender, and a sign offering free margaritas.

  Everything that an Acapulco hotel should have, except guests.

  The bar where they sat was also empty.

  Wilcox saw Emilia looking around. “Wrong season, don’t you know,” he blustered.

  “Of course,” Emilia said.

  At this time of the day, the Palacio Réal ran like a well oiled machine. Bartenders at the Pasodoble made fruity drinks. Each of the three pools at the Palacio Réal was busy, as staff stocked clean towels, ferried drinks, and led water aerobic classes. Guests relaxed in the spa or enjoyed wine tasting and gourmet cooking lessons in the restaurant. Tour groups assembled in the lobby. The marina hummed with private boat trips, fishing excursions, and water skiing lessons.

  “Boy.” Wilcox snapped his fingers at the Mexican bartender. “Make us some cocktails. Vodka tonics, with the Grey Goose. None of the cheap stuff.” He grinned at Kurt. “Sergei Porchenko gave me a case of Kalashnikov vodka. Tastes like piss but the wetbacks lap it up.”

  The conversation was in English. Emilia struggled with Wilcox’s twangy accent.

  Jane Wilcox came into the bar wearing a strapless dress. Her chest and arms were tanned, accentuating her skin’s crepe-like texture. Emilia thought she looked like an over-fried churro wrapped in a form-fitting napkin.

  “Emilia!” Jane nearly fell into Emilia’s lap as they exchanged air kisses. Her breath smelled like vinegar and mint. “And the handsome Kurt Rucker.”

  “Jane. Nice to see you.” Kurt grabbed the woman’s upper arms before she stuck her hand in his crotch. He eased her into a chair next to her husband.

  Tony Wilcox mimed another drink to the bartender.

  “Are you staying for lunch?” Jane asked. “I’ll have them make Mexican. Pollo con something. Emilia, you’ll like that.”

  Under the table, Kurt put a restraining hand on Emilia’s thigh. “Thanks, Jane,” he said. “We have to take a rain check on lunch.”

  The bartender delivered three vodka tonics and a glass of wine for Jane.

  “Cheers, all.” Wilcox slugged down half his drink.

  Emilia stirred the ice cubes in her glass with a finger. She never drank vodka and guessed now was not the time to start.

  Wilcox put down his glass and grinned at Kurt. “So, you two are doing some financial planning.”

  “Emilia and I are thinking of a run at that real estate investment club you told me about a few weeks ago,” Kurt said.

  “I thought you said you and Kurt don’t talk about money,” Jane said archly to Emilia.

  “Emilia and I are expanding our conversation,” Kurt said before Emilia could reply.

  “That sounds serious.” Wilcox guffawed and reached across the table to clap Kurt on the shoulder. “But hells, bells, Kurt. As I always say, why buy the cow if you can get the milk free?”

  “Oh, Tony,” Jane warbled. “Don’t be so crude. You’ll make Emilia nervous.”

  Emilia managed half a smile, unsure if she’d understood. The renewed pressure of Kurt’s hand on her leg said she had.

  “So is this real estate club for real or what, Tony?” Kurt got Wilcox back on track. “Are you making any money or is this a tax dodge?”

  “It’s legit,” Wilcox said with an expansive gesture that nearly toppled his wife’s wineglass. “Nothing complicated. We buy top commercial buildings, rent out office space and collect rent. You get a share of the rent in proportion to your original investment.”

  “Great.” Kurt nodded. “What’s the minimum?”

  “Here’s the deal.” Wilcox leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s a nice fat 20 percent return if you come in with at least half a million US. Cash money. No pesos, for crissakes. If you bring in a full million you get a guaranteed rate of 25 percent.” He leaned back. “Can’t get that kind of guarantee on the stock market. I tell you, doing business in Mexico is like finding gold in the street.”

  “That’s a lot of cash,” Kurt said. “I mean, you’re a business owner. You’ve got collateral. Who else is bringing that kind of cash to the table?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Wilcox said. “It’s not the kind of club where you sit around and drink together. You should liquidate whatever else you’re holding and grab a piece of it.”

  “If you haven’t met anyone else, how do you know it’s legit?”

  “I didn’t say I haven’t met anyone,” Wilcox huffed. “Most of the other Acapulco Hotel Association board members are in. The ones who are owners, at least. Real estate types are always looking for a good investment.”

  Emilia found it hard to stay still. Kurt’s hand on her knee kept her focused.

  “So who runs the show?” Kurt asked. “I don’t want to lay down a wad of cash and find out I’m dealing with a crook.”

  “Would I steer you wrong?” Wilcox inhaled the rest of his drink and snapped his fingers for a refill. “That’s the beauty of this. Everything’s local. No shadowy corporate assholes you never heard of. The man at the top is Pedro Duarte Ochoa. Fat guy. Dresses lik
e a fop. But he’s got a mind like a steel trap. Runs the El Pharaoh casino, don’t you know. Takes a fucking bushel out of there every night.”

  Chapter 27

  It was an surreal experience to arrive at the Avenida Almendros building as if it was an ordinary day. Emilia felt as if she had a bull’s eye on her forehead and a sign that said I know this place is a scam on her back. Maybe she didn’t need the gun strapped to her ankle beneath black pants but she wouldn’t have had the courage to walk in without it.

  She made a circuit of the silent and empty storefronts. Consolidated Solutions. Vector Analytics. Soledo Enterprises. Exactly the same as the first day she’d walked into the building.

  The Las Palomas office was the same, too. Busy with press releases and nonsense for Carlota. Emilia checked in with Paola, went into her office, and closed the door.

  She called Silvio’s cell phone. It rang a dozen times without going to voicemail.

  Too agitated to stay behind a desk, Emilia went down to the Las Palomas ready room and reviewed the patrol schedule. Natividad had everything in order. There was little for Emilia to do.

  She went back upstairs and called Silvio. No answer.

  The day crawled. The main issue at the daily meeting was what color lipstick the Las Palomas patrol officers should wear. One of the PR hacks proposed a cross-marketing campaign with an upscale department store like Palacio de Hierro.

  Emilia thought nothing more could surprise her but this left her simply aghast. “Las Palomas are cops,” she exclaimed. “We don’t sell cosmetics.”

  Everyone around the table looked embarrassed. Someone giggled.

  The discussion resumed as if Emilia had never spoken. Claudia asked questions but was more subdued than usual. No doubt she’d eventually approve the idea.

  Emilia excused herself and stalked out of the conference room. She went into her office, slammed the door, and jabbed at the redial button on her cell phone.

  Silvio picked up on the third ring. “Cruz,” he said, his voice neutral.

  “Where have you been?” Emilia snapped. “I’ve been calling you all day.”

  “Run out of other ways to waste your time?”

  “Don’t give me any of your shit, Franco,” Emilia shot back. She pressed the heel of her free hand to her forehead, trying to control the stress swimming through her bloodstream. She took a deep breath. “I need to talk to you about El Trio. And Isabel.”

  “The circle man?”

  “I think I know who hired him.”

  Silvio was silent, but she heard the shift in his attitude. “I’m listening,” he said at length.

  “I have to show you,” Emilia said. “Can we meet?”

  “Where?”

  “The place with the good tostadas and ceviche. You remember?”

  “Sure.”

  “Stay in your car,” Emilia said. “Pick me up on the sidewalk in an hour.”

  She churned through her emails, cleared off her desk, grabbed her shoulder bag, and set off for the restroom. The space gleamed with white porcelain tiles, volcanic stone basin sinks, and enamel partitions that stopped a few inches shy of the terrazzo floor. As Emilia pushed open the door, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone vomiting.

  One stall door was closed. Emilia peered underneath and saw a pair of beige pumps with red soles.

  The vomiting stopped and was replaced by soft coughing. An unseen hand flushed the toilet.

  Claudia came out of the stall and flinched when she saw Emilia. “Oh, hello.”

  “Are you all right?” Emilia asked.

  Claudia stepped to a sink and turned on the water. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” she said primly. “A touch of food poisoning, that’s all.” She splashed water on her face and swished out her mouth.

  “Okay.” Emilia used a different stall.

  When she came out, Claudia was still standing at the sink with the water running. Tears and mascara streamed down her face.

  Emilia went to the other sink and tried to pretend she hadn’t seen. She got a paper towel, swiftly dried her hands, and reached for the door handle.

  “Emilia?” Claudia’s voice was small and broken.

  Two minutes. She’d give the woman two minutes. Emilia turned around. “What’s going on, Claudia?” she asked. “Palacio de Hierro tell you to take your lipstick idea and shove it?”

  “No.” The younger woman gulped several times. “I’m pregnant.”

  “Madre de Dios.” Emilia reluctantly came back to the sink and turned off the faucet. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Claudia brushed at her tears, leaving a messy smudge under both eyes.

  Emilia knew the answer but had to ask. “Is Victor Obregon the father?”

  Claudia nodded. “Yes, it’s Victor.”

  “Have you told him?” Emilia handed Claudia a paper towel.

  “No.” Claudia took the paper towel and clutched it in both hands, like a frightened little girl. “I can’t.”

  “You have to,” Emilia said.

  “He’ll be furious,” Claudia whimpered.

  “He has to know,” Emilia insisted. The parallel between this news and Kurt’s situation with the mythical Suzanne hit her hard. “The child is his responsibility, not just yours.”

  Claudia dabbed at her face with the paper towel even as she teared up again. “I never meant for this to happen,” she sniffed. “Victor was so helpful. One day he was in my office. He put his hand on my knee, and said if he didn’t have me he’d lose his mind. Before I knew it we were doing it.”

  “Didn’t he use a condom?” Emilia asked.

  Claudia shook her head. “You don’t ask an important man like Victor things like that.”

  “Then how could you have thought that nothing would happen?” Emilia wanted to shake the teary woman. Like a bird of prey, Obregon had swooped in, seen Claudia the rabbit, and eaten her alive. This was what happened when children were given grown-up jobs.

  “He’s so exciting.” Claudia’s eyes filled again. “And he wanted me. Not Carlota. Me.”

  “Sleeping with him could be a real career builder, too,” Emilia observed.

  Claudia hiccupped and turned scarlet. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  “Well, nobody likes the whole truth.” Emilia picked up her shoulder bag from where she’d left it by the sink. “You have to tell him. It’s his child and he’s responsible. You’d better tell Carlota, too.”

  “I’ll lose my job if Carlota finds out,” Claudia gulped.

  “Ask her to be the godmother and maybe she won’t fire you.”

  Claudia brightened. “That’s a good idea, Emilia.”

  Suddenly, Emilia couldn’t stand being in the confined space, where every word bounced off the hard tile, echoed in her brain, reminded her of the situation with Kurt, and made her late to meet Silvio. She jerked open the bathroom door and fled down the hall.

  Chapter 28

  The timing worked as if they’d practiced. Silvio’s truck pulled up to the sidewalk as Emilia passed a table of workmen shoveling down tostadas and tunes blasted from the food stand’s boom box. She threw her shoulder bag, weighted with the ledgers, onto the seat and climbed in after it. Silvio swung away from the curb as she slammed the door.

  Silvio looked even thinner than when she’d seen him at the funeral. No, not thinner. More like ripped, as if he’d spent every waking hour since in the gym. The skin over his jaw was stretched tight. The veins and sinews of his neck stood out like knotted rope. He wore a black tee over black jeans, an outfit which accentuated his overall look of taut muscle and constrained menace.

  “Where are we going?” he asked without preamble. No greeting, no apology for the harsh words he’d thrown at her after the funeral.

  Emilia told him how to get to the church. Last night, it had seemed the best neutral ground with the privacy needed to show him the ledgers and test out her theories. Now, with the dynamite in her bag, she wasn’t so sure she should create
a trail that led to Padre Ricardo. But she didn’t know where else to go that would be private.

  The old priest greeted them without asking questions and opened the door to the sacristy. “No one will disturb you.”

  “Thank you, Padre,” Emilia murmured. “If anyone asks, this was couples counseling, right?”

  Padre Ricardo turned to Silvio. “May I offer you some tea?”

  “No,” Emilia said before Silvio could respond. Padre Ricardo reused tea bags until the recipe was hot water and hope. “No, thank you.”

  Padre Ricardo left. Emilia sat at the big table which served the priest as desk, ironing board for his vestments, and conference center when he met with Confirmation candidates, planned funerals, or conducted marriage counseling.

  Silvio stayed by the window, his arms folded. “So what’s with all the drama, Cruz?”

  Emilia pulled out the ledgers and let each drop on the table with a heavy thud.

  Silvio crossed the room in two steps. “You found my books.”

  “They’re not your books,” Emilia said. “They’re from the stash we hauled out of the El Pharaoh casino a couple of months ago. The money laundering case that tanked because of Castro and Gomez.”

  “Where did you find them?” Silvio snatched up one of the ledgers and paged through it.

  “Remember Salinas? The first El Trio victim.”

  Silvio closed the ledger and tossed it on the table. “Okay, you’ve got my attention,” he said.

  “I think you’d better sit down,” Emilia said.

  It wasn’t the most coherent account of what she’d found out over the past few weeks, but Silvio listened intently and didn’t interrupt. Emilia showed him the documents from Loyola’s file and flipped open her notebook to make sure she remembered every detail of the conversations with Dario Delgado, Josefina Vargas Guzmán, Tony Wilcox, and Ibarra. She told him the federale medical examiner’s grim story about Espinosa, too.

  “It’s all there,” Emilia finished. “A giant money laundering scheme that washes drug money through real estate holdings, using a legit investment club as cover. The owner of the El Pharaoh runs the whole thing. We should have found this out months ago, after the raid.”